"Come on, Patty," said Philip, "let's make it a double affair. How about it?" "No, thank you. I haven't any suit trimmed with chinchilla." "You've a whole chinchilla coat on now," said Mona. "You could wear that." "What! get married in old clothes! No-sir-ee! The best part of a wedding is the trousseau. That's the only thing that would ever persuade _me_ to take the fatal step." "It is fun," agreed Mona. "Oh, Patty, my green velvet came home yesterday! It's simply wonderful! The tunic, you know----" "Help! help!" cried Roger. "You girls have got us penned in here where we can't get away, but if you're going to talk about bias ruffling and side gores, I shall jump out the window! I warn you." "You can't stop 'em, old man," said Van Reypen, gravely, "they've got to go through with that green velvet, now they've begun on it. Proceed, Mona. The tunic was trimmed with peplum, wasn't it? and the bodice was cut _en train_----" "You don't deserve to know," Mona told him, "and as for Roger, he'll see enough of that green velvet, poor man! It's so beautiful, I expect to wear it on every possible occasion." "All right, dear," said Roger, rolling his eyes in mock devotion. "Whatever you say, goes, my queen, my--y que--ee--n!" "Even if I wear a rig like Alla Blaney wore last night?" asked Mona, laughing. "Well, I must draw the line somewhere, and I should say that was the very place! If you elect to appear in a scarecrow costume of that type, I shall send you back to your father." "No danger," and Mona shook her head. "Why do people want to make themselves such frights?" "Their dress interprets their souls," said Van Reypen, sarcastically, "and their souls are frights." "Nothing of the sort, Phil," flared out Patty; "I'd like you to remember those people are my friends." "Well, my dear, if you choose to have friends with souls like frights, it is, of course, your privilege; but you must allow me to express my opinion of them." "And so you may,--but not to me." "Very well; consider I was talking to Mona,--which I really was." "Then continue to talk to her, for I don't want to talk to you." "All right, pretty Patty,--pretty little sunny-faced Patty,--all right." Philip's voice was teasing and his smile was irritating, and Patty was angry at him anyway, yet she couldn't help laughing at his speech, for she looked as cross as a thunder cloud, and she knew it. That is, as near to the crossness of a thunder cloud as Patty Fairfield could manage. Her cheeks were reddened by the cold wind and her blue eyes always looked bluer in a frosty atmosphere. And now, as an uncontrollable smile parted her scarlet lips, and her white teeth gleamed, and her dimples came into view, Patty justified Philip's term of "pretty Patty," but she quickly concealed her smile by sinking her chin deep into the great fur collar of her coat.